The Mordhaus Archives
by 4pollos
Summary: Collection of drabbles, ficlets, etc, of all variety, though you can count on a heavy dose of Skwisgaar/Toki.
1. Bonding With Zoo Animals

Most of this is stuff I posted to my tumblr but because I feel like it is my sole mission in life to make the world of Metalocalypse fanfiction rich and plentiful I've started up a collection here. I'll give summaries, etc, at the beginning of each chapter. They range in size from around 250 word drabbles to 3k ficlets that I feel can't stand on their own. Enjoy!

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**Bonding with Zoo Animals **_Tumblr request: "dethklok goes to the zoo." _Genfic.

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"Guys, we should totally goes to the zoo."

"Toki, we are not going to the fucking zoo."

It was their third huge American tour and they were relaxing in their bus's hot tub, all five of them, previously in silence until Toki sat straight up in the water, spraying his bandmates and exclaiming that they should totally go the zoo. Nathan dismissed this outright and Skwisgaar gave a short nod in agreement. Toki, undeterred, crossed his arm and continued to make his case.

"Aparts from de fact dat de zoo is _awesome_," Toki said, drawing the last word out, "it can totally be brutal, too."

"Go on," Pickles said, entertaining the notion and raising a single eyebrow. He tipped his glass to Toki like Gatsby at a party.

"They has animals that can kill you in a zoo! Rhinestoneoctapuses—"

Oh, ja, rindaknoxvilles." Skwisgaar again nodded, fingers moving up and down his half-submerged guitar and somehow producing no noise. "Totallies metals. Like unicorns that can kills you."

"Hey, I was talking," Toki whined, turning towards Skwisgaar and pouting. Skwisgaar shrugged.

"Yeah, okay, they have animals that can kill you," Nathan said. "But will there be, you know, guaranteed rhinoceros murder? Good song title. Somebody write that down."

"We are de richest men in de world," Toki said. He uncrossed his arms and relaxed, certain that he had won this argument or proposal, whatever it was. "I'm sure it can be ables to be arranged."

Between the city they had just played in and the city they were going to next was a zoo. It was not a particularly amazing zoo, rather mediocre as far as zoos went, pushed off from the highway and sprawling over a decent amount of land. Toki bounced with excitement for the entire ride there, jabbering on about his zoo plans and ignoring everybody else's requests to shut up. Their driver parked crooked over several parking spaces in the parking lot, hitting a few cars in the process. Charles got off the bus with them, still very much their babysitter and needing to make sure they didn't get lost or accidentally cause the apocalypse while looking at monkeys or manatees. They bypassed the queue and got into the zoo for free, recognized as Dethklok

At Nathan's insistence they went towards the aquatic life first, taking a bridge that went over a river populated by manatees. Pickles, tipsy and sipping from a bottle of hard liquor, laughed at them; Murderface almost pissed on one's head until Charles cleared his throat and reminded him that that was not appropriate behavior. Inside the aquarium Nathan peered into every individual tank, holding long and deep conversations with the fishes, while Pickles watched the same five-minute video on taking care of the ecosystem over and over ("This is _important_," he insisted each time Charles or Murderface tried to drag him away), Skwisgaar and Toki got into an argument over the pronunciation of _flamingo_, and Murderface watched the manatees through the large window towards the south end of the aquarium that opened up to the river, initially taunting them but forming a connection after a while, probably with root in their general similarities. Charles hovered around them all, pinching the bridge of his nose with gusto and murmuring under his breath.

The exit of the aquarium took them into the bird section, which was pretty lame until a hawk broke free and pecked somebody's eyes out, a marginally cool occurrence. They kept walking, beginning to sweat from the amount of people and sun beating down on them, until they hit some sort of Africa replication towards the back of the zoo. On grand display was a lion, a gorgeous and large beast with an impressive mane. Somebody stuck their arm in his cage and got it bitten off. Murderface broke into the lion's cage and befriended it, hugging it around the neck and petting it, asking Charles to make arrangements for this lion to become Murderface's pet. Charles pulled out his cell phone and got to doing that.

The rhinoceroses were not a disappointment. One gave birth while the four of them (Murderface and Charles preoccupied with the legal process of adopting a lion from the zoo) watched. Toki requested to name the newborn, christening it _Stor_, despite Skwisgaar claiming that _dat ams de most unoriginal name I has ever heared_.

They stopped off to watch the monkeys before riding the zoo's rollercoaster and carousel. Nobody except Toki admitted to enjoying the carousel more, though in truth they all had. Charles and Murderface rejoined them afterwards, Murderface's new pet lion on a plane back to Mordhaus and Charles looking worn out. It was getting late and they decided to watch the sunset from an observation tower towards the front of the zoo. Everybody except Toki was wheezing and panting by the time they reached the top of the tower, layering their arms on the railing and staring out at the sun descending on the zoo. Below them an escaped ape beat a soccer mom to death with part of the bars of his old cage.

"See, the zoo is fun," Toki said. He looked around at his bandmates and Charles, smiling and make eye contact with each of them.

"I guess so," Nathan grunted, jerking his head to get hair out of his eyes. He looked off to the side and moved his hand in a noncommittal manner.

"I liked it," Pickles said. He threw down the third bottle he had made his way through that night, hitting the ape in the head.

"It wasch great, Toki, I got a fucking lion," Murderface said.

"Ja," was Skwisgaar's contribution.

"Well, uh, guys, I'm glad you all had a good time at the, uh, zoo," Charles said. He fidgeted around behind them, sounding awkward and pained as he spoke. "But you have work to do, and we have to be getting back to the bus and the tour and the things that make you money."

"Fuck off, Charlie, we're enjoying the zoo." It didn't matter who said it (though the words came from Pickles's mouth); they were all thinking it.


	2. In the Helicopter after the Tour

**In the Helicopter After the Tour **_Tumblr request: NathanxPickles tender fluff? If you want to. _Nathan/Pickles.

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Tours took a lot out of a man. Extended periods of time away from your own bed and the associated comfortable feeling of home drained you of energy, requiring more artificial substances to give you bursts long enough for the duration of a show, until you were tired and falling asleep on your other band members' shoulders and yawning all over the place, itching inside of yourself for _return_ and _recluse_. Nathan and Pickles found themselves in this situation on a helicopter ride from someplace in Russia back to Mordhaus, Pickles's head on Nathan's shoulder and Nathan's head on Pickles's, sitting by themselves and separated from the sleeping pile of Toki, Skwisgaar and Murderface, laying on top of each other in that order. Nathan and Pickles weren't quite asleep but not quite awake, either, in that place where reality felt like a dream and sleep was crawling in but not quite there.

"Good show," Nathan mumbled, rolling his mouth into Pickles's dreads.

"Yeah," Pickles said.

"You know," Nathan said, speaking into Pickles's scalp, "your accent, like, goes away, when you're this tired."

"Really?" Pickles closed his eyes and pressed his forehead into Nathan's shoulder, moving his head up and down a bit. An old signal, Nathan picked his legs up and let Pickles come into his lap, Nathan leaning his back against the armrest of the couch they occupied. Pickles fit in Nathan's lap almost perfectly, his head against Nathan's chest and knees curled into his own, Nathan's arms wrapping around him.

"Yeah." Nathan sounded closer to sleep than Pickles. "Guess 'cause you speak slower. Or something."

"Sweet of you to notice." Pickles's mouth widened into a sloppy grin. "Real sweet." He patted Nathan's chest a few times.

"Ugh," Nathan said. There was no real emotion behind it. He rubbed Pickles's back up and down. "Good show," he said, again. "Good tour. I have some ideas for songs for the next album." There were gaps between his syllables and he punctuated the sentence with a yawn, voice betraying his exhaustion.

"'Course you do," Pickles said. He didn't mean anything behind it. "But we don't have to work for a while. Let's just…let's just sleep. For a long time. A real long time." He let his eyes flutter shut, replacing the image of his sleeping bandmates piled on top of each other with blackness.

"I'd…sleep…yeah." Nathan's voice faltered and he pulled Pickles tighter towards him, almost to the point of pain. His grip lessened as his consciousness slipped. Pickles placed a hand over Nathan's chest, felt his heartbeat beneath his shirt, finding it, along with the rise and fall of Nathan's breathing chest, matched his own. They fell asleep in sync.


	3. Torturous Electricity Between Both of Us

This chapter steals it's title from Landfill by Daughter, which is a pretty good Skwisgaar/Toki song, and is also dedicated to tumblr user murderfishing who requested it. This is like the seventh time I've written about the subject, I swear. It's one of my favorites.

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**Torturous Electricity Between Both of Us **_Tumblr request: rubs up against your side and begs for a skwistok where skwisgaar finds the scars on toki's back for the first time. _Skwisgaar/Toki.

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Auditions for their new rhythm guitarist yielded nothing. Skwisgaar sat with his bandmates on their couch, their dining room table dragged in front of it to write and rest their elbows on, bored and flinching at every sour or slow note he heard from the guitar of some greasy metal fan with unwashed hair and far too hopeful eyes. He drummed his fingers along the table, sat with his face in his hand, wished for immediate death and waved every candidate off.

"Dude," Pickles said after their forty-second failed applicant, "we have to pick _somebody_. The fuck is your problem, Skwisgaar? The last guy wasn't too bad."

The last guy had been a short and scrawny twenty-five-year old with stubby fingers. He had smelled like garlic, enough that Skwisgaar could detect it from ten feet away, and he'd broken a guitar string in the process of playing an original song. Skwisgaar groaned and sat up, leaning back into the couch. Maybe if he tried hard enough it would engulf him and he would die and this whole mess would be over with. "Dey all sucks," Skwisgaar said. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands. "Dey ams all dildoes guitar players."

"We at least need a temporary replacement," Pickles said. He was sitting on Skwisgaar's right and drinking from a beer bottle, tapping out a beat with his foot. Skwisgaar opened his eyes and sent Pickles's bouncing knee a death glare.

"I doesn't cares," Skwisgaar said. He stood up, his thighs bumping into the table in front of them. He climbed over Murderface's legs and went towards the direction of his room. "I ams done."

Before he slammed his door he heard Nathan ask Pickles _the fuck is his problem_? and the beginning of Murderface's lisp forming a quip. Once inside his room, nothing more than a windowless and poorly lit box with a mattress shoved in a corner and a guitar in the other, he sat on the floor and pulled his guitar towards him. Magnus's mental breakdown led to Skwisgaar attaining the lead guitarist position, something he had always thought he deserved, but mirth was lost on him for lack of a suitable rhythm. He needed somebody not quite as his skill level but decent enough to bring out the best in his playing, to support the band. He scowled and fingered his guitar, fast as he could, pouring all of his effort into it. It was all he wanted in life to be a lead guitarist for a famous band. He didn't need some half-assed rhythm bogging him down.

The walls of their apartment were soundproofed, a necessity to not get kicked out, and he couldn't hear what was going on outside. In about half an hour—a rough estimate, as there was no clock available to him—somebody knocked on his door once, waited a few seconds, then knocked in a steady stream. Skwisgaar placed his guitar down and opened the door, revealing an almost distraught-looking Murderface.

"You have _got _to schee thisch," Murderface panted. He jammed a thumb behind him, towards the living room. Over Murderface's head Skwisgaar saw a guy standing in there, holding a guitar and looking nervous.

"Why," Skwisgaar said, voice flat.

Murderface didn't respond but grabbed Skwisgaar's wrist and dragged him into the living room. Skwisgaar broke free and sat himself on the couch before Murderface could toss him on it, propping his boots up on the table and putting his arms behind his head.

"Do that again," Pickles said. He'd put his beer down and was leaning in towards the guy.

The guy began to play. It wasn't spectacular. It wasn't _Skwisgaar_ or even Magnus. It was the guy's own, his competent own, his fingers moving fast enough for the band's pace and producing a good enough sound. It was the best of all the auditions they'd heard, the best they were probably going to find, but it wasn't spectacular. Skwisgaar knew that no matter what he said at this point the guy was their new rhythm, his fellow guitarist, and so he listened. When the guy stopped, he looked at them, eyes wide and earnest, on the verge of shaking.

Skwisgaar shrugged. "Good enough," he said. Pickles whooped and shot up to greet the guy, shaking his hand and asking his name.

"Toki Wartooth," the guy said. Skwisgaar recognized the accent—Norwegian. Scandinavian. All the better.

"Well, Toki," Pickles said. He slapped a hand on Toki's shoulder. "Welcome to Dethklok."

Toki eased into life with them. He took Magnus's own room and spent most of his time not practicing in there. They thought he was a little quiet, a little too introverted, but he played good guitar so they didn't give it too much thought. It nagged at Skwisgaar, though, Toki's privacy and the polite way he would smile, his straight posture. Something was off. Skwisgaar didn't know what and he didn't ask, but something wasn't right with Toki, something put him on edge. The feeling disappeared as time rolled by and they moved apartments a few times until renting out a shabby house in a shady part of town, playing shows every night, starting to get some income from the album they put out. Toki kept to himself through all of this, playing his guitar when called upon but otherwise disappearing.

Skwisgaar figured out what bothered him when he caught a naked Murderface walking from the shower to his room. Once he'd finished choking on his tongue, Skwisgaar realized that he had seen all of his bandmates in various stages of undress or compromising positions except for Toki. He'd never even seen the kid with his boots off. He was going to remedy this.

He went to Toki's room and knocked on the door. Toki slipped out, pulling the door shut behind him. The lights in his room were off; Skwisgaar couldn't make out anything anyway.

"De fucks ams yous problem?" Skwisgaar asked. He stepped back so he could make eye contact with Toki.

"What do you mean?" Short, polite sentences. Straight posture. Clean-shaven. Neatly combed and parted hair. Like a good little choir boy.

"Why ams you so—" Skwsigaar struggled to find the words. "_Polite _and _modest_," he managed, after a few seconds.

Toki shrugged. "I was raised that way," he said.

"Well," Skwisgaar said. "Stops."

Toki shook his head in a few bursts, his hair swinging around his face. "I'm only being polite," he said.

"We ams a fucking death metal band," Skwisgaar said. He spelled it out for the guy. He didn't think he was stupid; slow, maybe, but not stupid. "Polite amns't means shit."

Toki had this look in his eyes like he knew something Skwisgaar didn't, which he probably did, but it still annoyed Skwisgaar. "I can't just stop," Toki said.

"You ams from Norway, ja?" Skwisgaar asked. Toki nodded; Skwisgaar continued to talk. "Well, I ams a Swede. I understands a little thing about de European culture. You acts weird, even fors a Norwegian."

Toki bit his lip and said nothing. He opened the door to his room to slip inside but Skwisgaar acted fast, slamming his hand against the faux wood and opening the room wide. The light spilling from the hallway was enough for Skwisgaar to see a bed, a guitar and a desk with some pictures on it, though not enough to see what the pictures were. Skwisgaar stepped past Toki, taking advantage of Toki's manners and his superior height, and flicked the light switch on. The pictures on Toki's desk were of two older people swaddled in black robes, their hair hidden by headwear and their skin leathery and sunken, eyes morose. Skwisgaar furrowed his brow and looked at Toki. He could see a resemblance, something in the eyes and the way his jaw set, to the woman, and around the cheekbones and nose to the man. Toki's parents, solemn against a background of Norwegian snow, in the pictures on Toki's desk.

Toki continued to say nothing. Skwisgaar's hand slid from the door. Something was up. He looked at Toki, compared his eyebrows, the shape of his chin, the ridges around his eyes, to the pictures on his desk. Definitely his parents, looking like cult members in an abandoned Norwegian village. They somehow produced the man—barely even a man, more of a teenager that had surpassed teens in quantitative age—standing in front of Skwisgaar with his long hair and affinity for death metal. He couldn't connect the two.

"My parents," Toki croaked after a pregnant pause. Skwisgaar figured it out when he heard Toki's voice.

"Ams dey nice people?" Skwisgaar asked, voice soft. Toki's head lurched, halfway between a _yes_and a _no_, and the pieces fell in place like snow to the ground. "Mean peoples," Skwisgaar said. He touched Toki's shoulder.

It felt right to kiss him and Skwisgaar always followed his sexual impulses so he kissed Toki, lifting his chin with a finger underneath. Tender. Skwisgaar had no further intentions. He didn't know what the fuck was going on, really, what the band had taken in. Toki broke the kiss—Skwisgaar expected him to—and turned around, which was sort of weird. He tugged off his shirt, taking it off by the back of the neck, and Skwisgaar understood.

Crisscrossed on Toki's tanned skin were scars of various shapes and sizes, pink and smooth to touch when Skwisgaar reached out to feel them. "Oh," Skwisgaar said, just "oh," just an affirmation of understanding. Toki's parents. His manners. His scars. Skwisgaar didn't want to know anything further, didn't want this, but Toki was shaking and making these little noises and Skwisgaar wasn't moving his fingers. Toki moved them away after a few seconds, put his shirt back on, and turned around.

"Oh," Skwisgaar said again. "I understands now."

Toki nodded. Not a polite nod, but an actual nod, slow and chin-to-chest. "Don't tell the other guys," he said.

"I wouldn'ts," Skwisgaar said.

Toki stood there, trembling, and Skwisgaar stood there, unable to command his body into leaving. He didn't know what was happening but he hugged Toki when he fell into him, put his chin on Toki's head and rubbed his back, didn't say anything as Toki shook. Toki didn't cry, just quivered, holding an earthquake inside of his chest. He didn't say anything, either, but Skwisgaar figured that this was some sort of release that Toki needed. Maybe after this was done he would warm up to the rest of the band, initiate himself, bear his back. For now Skwisgaar held Toki, held his secret, held his soul.


	4. The Best Lay You'll Ever Have

This chapter takes place in the same universe as _Torturous Electricity Between Both of U_s in my mind, but they can also be read as standalones.

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**The Best Lay You'll Ever Have **_Tumblr request: Ahh can I request sexy Skwis/Toki? With something kinky? Or not, either way... u v u. _Skwisgaar/Toki. Warnings: bloodplay, light bondage, dubcon involving a presumed age gap.

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Blood drips into his mouth, copper pennies on his tongue. He drags his nails down Skwisgaar's back, too short to slice skin but enough to hurt, and rolls him on his back. The blood from the scratches on his chest spills towards the side now and Toki rolls his tongue back, swallowing what was in mouth, dips his head down to suck from the wound. Skwisgaar makes an indistinguishable noise and grinds his hips up; Toki grins a vampire grin. He crawls up and licks his way into Skwisgaar's mouth, knots their tongue together, sticks his hand into the fray where their crotches meet and kneads Skwisgaar's cock through his pants.

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"Here we goes," Toki mutters, tying the rope around Skwisgaar's wrists. Skwisgaar makes a reluctant noise in his throat, somewhere between a grunt and a curse, kicks his head back like a stubborn horse. Toki steps from behind him and grabs him by the chin, straightens his head. "Be good," he whispers, breath hot on Skwisgaar's face. Skwisgaar sneers at him. He's only pretending not to like this; the bulge in his jeans indicate otherwise. Toki bends and shackles Skwisgaar's feet to the ground, pockets the key. They're in some recently discovered dungeon of Mordhaus's, maybe a bastion for Murderface's disregarded torture devices. Toki had stumbled upon it earlier that day.

Toki stands up and stares at Skwisgaar, head cocked. He walks around Skwisgaar and studies him from every angle, a sculptor surveying his recent invention. He leans in close so that their noses are touching and brings their lip together, experimental, then tilts and kisses him deeply. Skwisgaar's tongue works quick and strong as his fingers on the guitar and Toki draws back. Skwisgaar leans forward to rejoin their mouths and Toki stops him with a hand to his chest. He's stronger than Skwisgaar, a fact he's only begun to appreciate recently. Skwisgaar stills beneath his hand and Toki drags it down, not caring to be gentle. He unbuttons Skwisgaar's jeans with one hand as he holds his head with the other, making eye contact. Skwisgaar's trying to look spiteful but his eyes, hazy with lust and what's probably Skwisgaar's equivalent of love, is preventing it.

Toki lowers to his knees to take Skwisgaar's dick in his mouth and uses his hands to prevent Skwisgaar from thrusting, knocking him back whenever he tries. Toki can take him all the way in, no gag reflex to be found in his throat, but he doesn't, only a few inches, only a few bobs, and then he's off and only licking around the tip, still preventing Skwisgaar from moving his hips forward.

"Goddamnits," Skwisgaar says. He's breathing through his nose, hard, panting. Toki looks up and smiles at him, still on his knees, hands still on Skwisgaar's pelvis, not doing anything with the dick in front of his face. Skwisgaar's muscles are twitching with feverence, desperate. "_Goddamnits_, Toki."

Toki shrugs and stands up again, pulls Skwisgaar in for a kiss, one hand entangled in Skwisgaar's hair. Toki breaks the kiss to run his mouth down Skwisgaar's jaw, down his neck, his shoulder, his chest, his stomach, down and down, everywhere but his cock, ignoring it. He doesn't prevent Skwisgaar from thrusting; he lets him fuck the air. Toki's enjoying this, really relishing it, the feral look in Skwisgaar's eyes, the grunts he makes, the hardness of his teeth clenched together. Toki moves over Skwisgaar's body with his mouth and his fingers but only lightly, only tracing, drawing, little touches.

It's fifteen minutes of this before Skwisgaar knocks his head towards the side and opens his mouth, shouts. "_Please_," he says, face contorted, voice broken. Toki stops nibbling at a spot on his side, towards the place where his hips flare out, and straightens up.

"That's what I wanted," Toki says. He leans into Skwisgaar, their forehead pressing into each other, and unties the knot keeping his hands tied. Skwisgaar's hands burst forward, grabbing Toki's face and mashing their lips together. It's no fun to give and not receive; Toki takes the key to Skwisgaar's shackles from his pocket and undoes them, lets Skwisgaar fuck him up against the wall beside a guillotine, lets Skwisgaar bite his neck and go rough, comes from penetration alone.

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Toki's a virgin when he enters Dethklok. It's not surprising—he's twenty-two, fresh from Norway, the wounds on his back aren't yet scarred and he's been separated from his parents for only a week. He doesn't know the details; some guy in a suit came to his door and took him away, told him he was important to an ancient prophecy and had to learn to play rhythm guitar for a death metal band. Toki went along with it, not really having a choice, and sort of glad to be away from his parents. That's not the point, though. The point is that Toki is a virgin, never even kissed somebody, and he's been thrown in into a world of sex.

What he knew of sex before Dethklok was minimal, controlled by his parents. It was for recreation or procreation between a man and a woman; he would experience it when he was married. The sex he's being exposed to at the moment is nothing like that, a man and three women locked inside of a room, none of them married (at least to each other) and all of them shouting and screaming. Toki's more than a little confused and more than a little turned on, back against the flimsy wall of his new apartment, listening to his bandmate fuck a bunch of groupie girls.

Because Toki still has childish curiosity and a lack of shame, he approaches Skwisgaar the next day, asks him about sex. Just like that—"What is sex, really?" and Skwisgaar is laughing in his face and wiping tears away, patting Toki on the shoulder.

Toki frowns, searches for the English to say what he needs to say in, and then continues to talk. "My parents told me that sex is for a man and a woman when they are married."

Skwisgaar laughs again and shakes his head. His hand on Toki's shoulder is starting to make Toki feel uncomfortable. "Oh, littles Toki," Skwisgaar says. Toki doesn't appreciate the nickname. "Does you need a demonstrations?" He pronounces the first part of the word like the English pronunciation for _demon_; Toki finds it apt.

Toki considers it for a second, tapping his chin with his finger. "It couldn't hurt," he says. He isn't serious, adding an air of sarcasm to his voice, but then Skwisgaar is kissing him and, oh, he's going to get a demonstration anyway. A demonstration from a demon. They're in the kitchen of their apartment, easy to be seen at any time, but this doesn't seem to concern Skwisgaar as his mouth works against Toki's own and his hands travel to his jeans. Skwisgaar rolls them down and Toki has a fleeting second of gratitude that Skwisgaar isn't going to take off his shirt, he doesn't want to explain the scars, and then what the _fuck_, Skwisgaar's hand is on his dick, and then his other one is reaching behind him and…fingering, he thinks that's the term, _fingering_him. Skwisgaar is narrating the entire thing, the amusement in his voice draining away and being replaced by something Toki can't identify.

"Sex between two men amns't the sames, obiously," Skwisgaar says. "With a ladies, you would be de one penetrating." His fingers spread Toki wide and he bends his body away from Toki, grabbing a bottle of olive oil that somebody must've left on the counter. Convenient. "I has no preference," Skwisgaar says as he continues to work Toki with his fingers and hands him the bottle of olive oil. "I just likes to be de one fuckingks, not beingks fucked." Toki opens the bottle of olive oil, head clouded, and pours some on Skwisgaar's outstretched hand. "Good," Skwisgaar said, and he takes the bottle from Toki and puts it back on the counter, all while he teases something in Toki's ass that's making his hips lurch forward without his approval. Skwisgaar oils his dick and then he's quiet, his mouth on Toki's, only for a few seconds before he takes his fingers away from Toki and turns him around. He slides into Toki with Toki's face pressed into the refrigerator, resumes his narration. "This ams sex," he says, and he lowers his forehead to press against Toki's shoulder, gets to thrusting.

"Oh," Toki says. "Okay. I like it." He's not lying. He's a little confused, maybe, but mostly this is the best thing he's ever felt. "Okay," he says again, and Skwisgaar snakes a hand around to jerk Toki's cock as he thrusts, pumping into him and pumping him, and Toki says, "Okay," again, and then he's coming, and then Skwisgaar is, and then he pulls out and Toki turns around and they're looking at each other.

"Does you want to makes dat a regular thing, ja?" Skwisgaar asks, eyebrows raised.

Toki nods. Skwisgaar laughs. Compared to the laughter from earlier, which was harsh and mean-spirited, this sort of beautiful, Toki thinks.

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Their thighs brush under the table during breakfast at Mordhaus and they exchange a look. That happens sometimes, accidental touches sending bolts of electricity and turning them both on, even if they'd just stumbled from a shared night in a shared bed. The other guys still don't know about it and they don't pay attention enough to care. They're chattering among themselves across the table, talking about some insipid and insane shit that Toki can't force himself to care about. He's even drinking coffee from a mug with Skwisgaar's skeletal face—he would think that the other guys would _notice_. It's an inside joke inside of an inside joke for him and Skwisgaar, and they smile with their interlocked gaze, laughing at the others' stupidity.

Under the table Toki moves to cover Skwisgaar's dick with his hand, just resting it there, willing it to rise. It does and Toki starts to knead it, going as far to slip his hands inside, stroking. It's obvious and the other guys still don't notice it. Skwisgaar's catching on, smirking at Toki.

Skwisgaar turns it into a game when he says, "Ja, we had dat in Sweden," contributing to the conversation. Skwisgaar's looking at Murderface while he says it and Toki's running his hand up and down Skwisgaar's shaft as he says it and Toki goes red, afraid of what will happen next.

"Nobody caresch about Schweden," Murderface says, rolling his eyes at Skwisgaar and turning back towards the conversation. Toki balks, mouth hanging open, and squeezes Skwisgaar's dick hard enough to hurt. Skwisgaar responds by taking the hand that had been holding his coffee mug and moving to Toki's own erection, slipping inside of Toki's own pants, Toki needs to stop underestimating Skwisgaar's ability to be a total dick. Toki is an unabashedly vocal lover; he whimpers, can't stop himself, and the other guys _still _don't notice.

Skwisgaar comes in Toki's hand when Toki whimpers and Toki bites his lip. His hand is covered in cum, he has no idea what he's going to do, the other guys continue to talk to themselves. Toki has an idea, convinces himself that if they're caught this will be all on Skwisgaar, and he takes his hand to his mouth and licks the cum off. Swallows it. Skwisgaar's mouth parts, his throat bobs like he wants to groan, but he won't let himself, better at self-control than Toki can ever help to be because his own hips are bucking, he's cumming, he really can't believe the other guys haven't noticed yet.

Skwisgaar, not one to be beat by any means, drags his hand up from Toki's crotch and towards Toki's mouth. Toki, not one to deny a challenge, also licks his cum from Skwisgaar's hand. He sucks on his fingers, turns his body towards him and makes eye contact. The other guys _still_don't notice.

Skwisgaar leans in and kisses Toki. This grabs the attention of the group, Murderface, Nathan and Pickles screaming and jumping and making noise. Toki doesn't care; he's glad they _finally_fucking noticed. He kisses Skwisgaar deeper, pulls him closer by his shirt, knots his finger in his hair. He doesn't care.

* * *

Toki hadn't been the one to give Skwisgaar the scratches on his chest but he takes advantage of them. It's some of the best sex they've had, over the years, and afterwards Toki lays his head on Skwisgaar's arm and traces over the scratches, wondering if they'll scar. He knows they won't, but it's weird to think about, Skwisgaar being scarred. Toki's scarred, after all, and he thinks he bears enough for the two of them.

"Didn't knows you liked blood," Skwisgaar mumbles, yawning as punctuation.

Toki laughs. "I likes _everything_," he says.


	5. Nothing Better to Do

**Nothing Better to Do **_Tumblr request: Pleasee anything cute Nathan&Toki. I just don't see enough of them around. _Genfic but you can read into it as much as you want.

* * *

"Nathan, will you helps me with dis model planes?"

Nathan looked up from the newspaper he had been reading—_FLORIDA MAN KILLS ZOO ANIMAL BY ACCIDENT—_and at Toki. Toki stood in front of him, his bottom lip pushed out in a pout and hands around a colorful box depicting a model airplane.

"No," Nathan said, flat. He tilted his head down and peered through his reading glasses at the page.

"Please!" Toki said. He walked forward, though not too far, and tore the newspaper out of Nathan's hands. This got his attention, though it wasn't very positive. "Pretty please with de sugars and de cherries on top!" Toki pleaded. Nathan expected him to get on the floor and beg. Toki had done that before. "It ams de plane dat killed de most people in all of de wars," Toki said, nudging the box towards Nathan.

Fuck. That was brutal. Nathan sighed, a long, hard and laboring sigh. "Will it get you to shut up?" He asked through gritted teeth, unbelieving that he was actually considering this.

Toki bit his lip and nodded. He looked pitiful standing there.

Nathan sighed again and stood up. "Okay," he said. Toki's face erupted into a grin and he flounced off in the direction of his room. Nathan dragged his feet and followed him, making noises of discontent and exasperation, hoping Toki would call the whole thing off. It was a Saturday morning and most of Mordhaus was asleep, including their bandmates, passed out after Friday night's show and subsequent party. He didn't have anything better to do, but he still hoped that Toki would call the whole thing off so he could go…golf, or something. Yeah. He wasn't coming up with _shit_. So, Nathan found himself sitting on a small stool in Toki's room, passing Toki impossibly tiny model airplane parts or superglue or whatever the fuck else he asked for all the while Toki babbled on, grinned, and constructed a model airplane. He had only gotten a fourth of the way through, maybe, when he stood up and declared them done, clapping his hands together and bouncing.

Nathan stood up, too, and was about to turn for the door when Toki lunged forward and wrapped his arms around Nathan. Nathan did not return the hug. "Oh, thanks you!" Toki said, squeezing Nathan tight.

"Whatever."


	6. The Opposite of Drunk

Similar to _Torturous Electricity Between Both of Us_ and _The Best Lay You'll Ever Have_, in my head this is the sequel to _In the Helicopter After the Tour_ but can be read independently.

* * *

**The Opposite of Drunk **_Tumblr request :yay requests are my favorite! can i ask for nathan and pickles with one or the others hands wandering a little too much? they don't have to be drunk or anything just ... yeah! _Nathan/Pickles.

* * *

Mordhaus was quiet, as usual, and Pickles was in the kitchen leaning on the counter, stirring a pot of porridge. It was relaxing to act like a normal jack-off and make your own food sometimes and that was the logic behind it, standing there in his briefs with sleep crusted to his eyes and one of his dreadlocks sticking at a weird angle. They'd just gotten back from a tour and he presumed the rest of his band to be asleep in their beds. He hadn't the slightest clue of what Charles was up to, didn't really care, and hadn't seen a Klokateer in a good half an hour. He took the spoon from his porridge and set it down on the counter, then his elbows, looking out the window. He felt a little glorious, basked in the bluish light of morning, the light freckles along his shoulders visible.

He heard something move behind him, then a familiar general kind of grumble, and then there were hands on his hips. Familiar hands, large and rough, uncared for. He didn't flinch, or react in any which way, just continued to stare out the window. He surveyed the grounds beneath him, feeling this settled contentment deep in his chest, that led to a lazy smile growing on his lips.

"Hey, Nathan," Pickles said.

"Hey," Nathan said, softer than usual. He dipped his head and pressed his nose into Pickles's neck; Pickles moved his head towards the side to make it more comfortable for him. One of Nathan's hands pushed downwards, dipping below the band of Pickles's briefs and onto his hip, while the other dragged upwards, finding Pickles's left nipple.

"Are you drunk?" Pickles asked, propping an eyebrow up. Nathan took his nose away from his neck to look him in the eyes. Green on green.

"No," Nathan said. "I'm the opposite of that. The opposite of drunk."

"Sober," Pickles said, and he laughed. He leaned forward to press his forehead into Nathan's. "The word is sober."

"Yeah, whatever," Nathan said. His thumb brushed over Pickles's nipple—Pickles shivered in response—while his other hand moved towards the cleft of Pickles's ass. Pickles sighed a little, loving sigh, and surged forward, jamming their lips together.

On the stove, the porridge burned until it caught fire.


	7. the things they are and are not

This one's sad! Just a warning. I really like it, though.

* * *

**the things they are and are not **_Skwisgaar and Toki. Sometimes things don't end well._

* * *

He's going to regret the last time he told him he loved him for the rest of his life.

They were in Paris—France—and it was fitting. They played a show and then slipped out from the rest of the band, itching to feel young again. To be free. They took seedy back alleys to avoid being recognized; they fucked in the corner of one, they told each other they loved each other without words, but it wasn't the last time. The last time came later. They worked their way into a tiny little bar and played pretend like they didn't know each other, like they were meeting for the first time.

It reminded him of how _old _he was getting, really. Seeing him like that, his elbows on the tabletop and his strong back curved. His body like a tree trunk, strong and sturdy, the foundation of all things stable. He had slid into the seat beside him, put his own elbows on the table, asked him if he wanted a drink.

He'd laughed in his face. "Not from you," he had said. Not in English, in one of their languages, that they had learned to better communicate with the other.

"Oh, I think you do," he had said. He pulled his wallet from his pocket and opened it, letting the proof his affluence flash. An old trick. He took a credit card out and flagged the bartender.

"So you're not leaving." He twirled the straw around on the drink he already had, leaned his body in towards him, curled his hair around his hair Unmistakable signs of attraction.

"I never am," he said, voice soft, hollow. A pick-up line and a promise.

"Maybe I never want you to." He leaned in close, then. They were not great actors. He put a hand on his thigh; it didn't matter whose was what. "Maybe I want you for the rest of my life." His voice dropped with his eyes, both directed at his lips that he kept in a hard line.

"We've only just met," he said, and it was barely above a whisper. "Don't make such irrational promises." He pulled back, paid for their drinks, gave him hard liquor. A dangerous move for dangerous men.

His hand was on his thigh, the fingers digging in. They couldn't act to save their lives. "I know ways we can get better acquainted." Elbows on the table. Twirling the straw. Fingers in his thigh. Low voice, low eyes, lips hard in a straight line.

"You should show me."

And he did. _He _fucked _him_ in the bathroom of a grimy Parisian bar, curled his hands in his hair and held his head back so all he saw was the ceiling, the ceiling of a grimy Parisian bar bathroom. He screamed loud as he could and he responded by curling his fingers harder, yanking his hair, his long body splayed and breaking and his fingers curling around the top of the stall they were fucking against. They expressed their love for each other but it wasn't the last time. The last time came later.

Sitting somewhere, their feet hanging off a ledge. Sharing something, a pastry they couldn't pronounce. Sharing something, smiles and feelings. Hands on thighs, feet off the ledge, lights of the city in the foreground, some old building in the background. Ready to crumble, ready to fall, ready to kill them all.

They'd gotten themselves into a fight. Not an unfamiliar occurrence. Feet off the ledge, lights of the city in the foreground, a part of history in the background, and they in the middle, standing on this ledge. "Fucks you," he said, ineloquent.

"Fucks you back!" His voice tipped in pitch when he yelled, anger rising in his pitch and in his cheeks, red-hot and screeching. "Oh _waits_." A serpent's tongue, bitter intonation. "I alreadys _did_." He meant it as an insult. He meant _it _as an insult. The thing they did, their bodies together, an insult.

It caught him by surprise. Sex was many things. Sex was not an insult. He didn't know what to say. Ready to crumble, ready to fall, ready to kill them all, architecture quiet on both sides. In focus and in distance. There was nobody around. The night was quiet; he could see _stars_ and he could see _light _and he could see his eyes, narrowed with something that was not quite hate. Definitely not love. _Love_. Make it hurt. Use against him what he had used against you. "I loves you," he said. He meant it as an insult.

Memory gets fuzzy. They made up, eventually, of course they did, that was almost a month before. They got in trouble for sneaking off for hours in the early morning; the sun rose as they were yelled at, told they were irresponsible and immature. They weren't speaking to each other then, their arms crossed over their chest and their heads cast in separate directions. Separated. Feet planted firmly on the ground, knees open, lewd. Mirroring each other's stance; unmistakable signs of attraction; they were never good actors—

He's going to regret the last time he told him he loved him for the rest of his life. He could say it now, but he's forgotten the words in all three languages he's familiar with. Some part of him knows that what he feels is love, looking down, but he can't express it. He can't make his mouth move, or the muscles in his tongue work, or his hands stop shaking.

"Well," somebody says. "I'll, uh. I'll arrange for the body to be. Disposed of." The owner of the voice drops his head and pinches the bridge of his nose, hard. "Guys. Guys. Let's just go. Guys." He keeps repeating it. He can't hear him. He doesn't understand what it means. His hands won't stop shaking. He can't move. Nothing is moving.

"This is _sad_." An accent. Nails on a chalkboard. It puts him in motion and he's on his knees; he can't remember the fall but he can feel it in his bones. His hands won't stop shaking and they shake the whole way down, he grabs the front of his shirt and holds it in his hands.

"I can't watch this." Who cares who said it? He can't even hear them. Lowers his head to his chest. Puts his ear where his heartbeat should be. Hears nothing. Hands won't stop shaking.

"Skwisgaar." He doesn't recognize his name.

"Buddy." Somebody crouches beside him.

"He's _dead_." Some part of him knows this. Some part of him refuses to believe it. Some other part of him is living that realization over and over in succession.

He's going to regret the last time he told him he loved him. His hands won't stop shaking. For the rest of his life.


	8. For the Cause

People told me to write this on a livestream so I did. This one's dedicated to them. I also think that this is a pretty solid fic, despite the weird pairing.

* * *

**For the Cause **_Lavona Succoboso, Seth, grimy Australian bars and vague conspiracy plots. _Seth/Lavona, Nathan/Pickles if you read into it.

* * *

From outside, the bar is unimpressive. She stands with her feet apart and a hand on the hip, the other shielding her eyes from the harsh Australian sun. The bar is located off the highway, a squat square with a small parking lot, spruces springing up around the building and the windows blacked out. It's called _Joey's_; in the parking lot are three vehicles: a dusty red truck, a motorcycle, and a black sports car. She squints her eyes harder and steps her feet together, starts to walk.

A bell chimes when she walks in. Inside is as barren as outside, a few tables, a bar. At the bar is a man. She recognizes him without even seeing his face: the gelled hair, looking dead in this poor lighting, the sweater vest and khaki pants, a misrepresentation of his personality. She keeps walking, never stopping, and sits beside him. He turns to look at her.

One of her underlings had told her about him. She knew of his existence before that, of course. He is the brother of her target's best friend, a terrible man with a job inside of Dethklok. A terrible man but a _useful _man. Her underling told her that he was willing to negotiate.

"Deliver me at once," she had told her underling. She was put on a plane to Australia, the next flight out, and arrived at the airport an hour ago. She had been driven to the bar by an associate and now here she is, staring at this man, at her new ally. He is grinning. It is unsettling.

"Why, hello," he says, and he has a voice like vinegar. The antithesis of honey: though smooth, it is sour, harsh on the tongue, hard to swallow it. She swallows it like a pro.

* * *

"There is something I think you might be able to help me with."

"Yeah, tell me about it."

Lighting low and grimy, drinks and hands and a chaste distance apart. Her posture is rigid, his slouched, and she narrows her eyes at him. He grins—he is always grinning, a lecherous man—and shakes his glass, scotch on the rocks, ice cubes clinging inside. He claims to be sober, carries a chip in his pocket.

"Your brother is too close to my target," she says. She lifts her drink to her mouth and sips. Bitter.

"What do you want me to do about that?" He puts a hand on her thigh and she allows it, for it will help her to her overall cause.

"_Separate them_." She takes his hand off her thigh and stood up.

* * *

The next time they meet in the bar he shows her a picture of his family.

"Quaint," she says, and she spits the word. She takes his wallet from his hand and puts the picture back inside before returning it to him. He gets the hint—he grins, but he is scared of her, they are _all_ scared of her—and pockets the wallet. "Have you been successful in your efforts?"

"I've been trying, it's just real fuckin' hard, y'know, he won't fuckin' talk to me, I gotta find a way to get him to fuckin' talk to me." He flags the bartender down and orders a scotch on the rocks. She wonders if the chip is in his pocket. The first time they met he had flashed it at her, told her he'd gone two years sober, before ordering them both a drink.

"However hard it is, you try harder." She sets her jaw and crosses her arms and legs. "I am prepared to leave and find somebody else for the job. You are not proving yourself. You are not worth the money I am paying you."

"No!" He says, and he puts both hands on her thighs, looks her straight in the eyes. "I'll try, okay, I'll try super fucking hard, I'll get them the fuck apart, just give me some time, I need some time. My wife—"

"I don't care about your family." She removes his hands. "You have one more chance."

She leaves. She knows he watches her walk out the door and sashays her hips just the slightest bit more. If it would help her cause, it was worth it.

* * *

His breath stinks. Not an organic odor, unwashed and unclean, but of booze. He is already drunk and blubbering as she leans in close to hear the faint words he spoke.

"I _failed_," he said. He moaned and put his head in his hands, a vein throbbing in his forehead. "I fuckin' failed, okay, I can't get them apart, I don't know what's up with 'em but I can't get Pickles to fuckin' _talk _to me, I'm so done, I'm so dead—"

"Shut up," she hisses. She stood up to stand behind him, places a hand on his shoulder, leans in close to his face. "You have the power to unsettle Pickles as not many men do. Pickles is standing between me and the ultimate cause. I need you on this, Seth." She digs her nails into his shoulder.

Seth turns around in his barstool, grabs her hand from his back and holds it between both of his. Grinning. "You never told me your name," he says, and he brings her hand to his clammy, chapped lips to kiss it.

"Lavona," she says, and in the back of her mind, _it will help my cause_.

"Lavona," he echoes, moving his lips against her hand. "Pretty name for a pretty girl."

She rips her hand away and glared at him. "Try harder," she says, and she leaves.

* * *

"I _think_," he slurs, words barely intelligible under the heavy fog of alcohol. "That you're fucking_into _me and I'm into _fucking _you, y'know? We should do it. Forget the fuckin' cause, man, forget fuckin' Dethklok, they suck, their music sucks, Pickles sucks—let's just fuck. Get it over with. C'mon." He slumps his entire body into hers, forehead into her shoulder, arms around her waist, legs mingling with hers.

"I don't want you," she says. "I want him. That is why I am doing this. It is for my cause." She does not hold him back. He rolls his forehead against her shoulder, nuzzles her collarbone.

"You smell so _good_," he says. It's a lie. She smells of nothing.

"You are disgusting," she says. It's a fact. He grins into her shoulder, drops his head to lean against her breast. "Remove yourself from me at once." No intonation; he does not follow through. She is curious to see what he will do next.

"Fuck Pickles, man," he says, and he laughs this broken laugh into her chest. Shakes his head. She knows, then, that it's futile. "Fuck 'em all. Why live like this, you know? Why fuckin' live like this." Drunk words from a drunk man and she is letting her guard down for it.

She pushes him off. "You disgust me," she says, and it's halfway between a fact and a lie. He disgusts her, yes, but like the words beneath his intoxicated utterings there is an intrigue under the heavy fog of disgust.

She doesn't leave. They stay and they talk. Mostly about the cause, about how _important _it is, for him to understand and to act as she says, and about the money, about how much he's getting and when. But they also talk, for only a handful of sentences, about his family, both immediate and extended and married-in, and she tells herself that it is all for the cause.

* * *

She puts a hand on his thigh and uses the other to tip his chin and look at her. "You cannot fail," she speaks, as low as her voice will allow. She trails her finger along the underside of his chin. "It is so important." She leans in and she kisses him.

She learned from a young age to use her beauty as a lure. It was a gift, not a curse, the way the men looked at her. She broke their hearts and left them to die. She sucked their souls dry. When she heard Dethklok she had heard her soul and knew she needed one final conquest, the ultimate conquest, the seed of the savior, the seed of Nathan Explosion. Where her beauty failed her she implemented her brains, and it led her here, to this grimy Australian bar with horrible music playing in the background and the swimmy eyes of a drunk and broken man. She cannot see his eyes; they are closed, as are hers, their lips held against each other.

He wiggles her tongue between her lips. He is not a good kisser, his tongue hot and heavy and unsexy in her mouth. She does the best she can, arches into him, kisses him. "This is for the cause," she spells out against his mouth, using both tongue and lips. He seems to understand. His hands are on her hips and then they are dipping lower, the thumbs hooked into her waistline. His hands travel up her back and over her shoulders, down to her breasts, and they are making out at this bar and she is telling herself that it is all for the cause, for her one true love, her final conquest, that she is doing this.

She doesn't let him fuck her, doesn't let him do anything besides explore her body. His fingers slip into her pants and she grinds into them, gets herself off. It's release; some part of her that has been wound tight for a long time unwinds and it feels alright. She doesn't get him off, leaves him with a tent in his pants and the ice melted in his drink. Fuck him. She will not fuck him.

* * *

"I can't," he says. He places his sobriety chip in front of her. "Can't fuckin' get them apart, Lavona, look, it's fuckin' useless."

She takes his chip and places it on her mouth, keeping her lips parted and playing with it. She doesn't speak, only rolls the chip between her cheeks and along her teeth. It tastes like how he smells: rancid.

"I'm so sorry," he says. He's not grinning. "I still want the money, I mean, I tried so hard, and I think it's only fair." She doesn't respond, just sucks on the chip and flicks it out of her lips like a lizard's tongue. He watches her play with it and then, frustrated, pries into her mouth with his fingers and retrieves the chip. "Fuckin' talk to me, Lavona," he says, placing the chip in her palm and holding her hands closed in his.

"You are useless and I no longer have a use for you," she says. He strokes a thumb over her hand. "Go home to your family. To your wife. Forget about Dethklok and your brother, you pitiful man. Let us who know what we are doing take care of it."

"Lavona," he says.

"This is our final meeting," she says.

"Let me fuck you. Please." He is begging, his fingers are moving over her hand, his sobriety chip is burning into her palm.

"I don't fuck men who beg for me," she says, and it's a lie, because those are the _only _men she fucks. She rips her hands from his and puts the chip back in her mouth. His hands follow and then his mouth; she pushes the chip through his lips in lieu of her tongue and they're sucking on the edges of it, the both of them.

She pushes him onto the floor in the women's bathroom, his head right by the door, and rips his shirt open. She drags her nails down his chest and towards his dick, around but not on it, takes his hands and puts one on her clothed breast and pushes the other down her pants. He dips his fingers inside of her and she growls, tells him no with a slap to the face. He rubs her clit and she rubs his face; an affirmation. She keeps him pinned to the ground with a hand on his chest while she pushes her pants down, then unzips his pants, lowers them just enough to expose his dick. It's small, of course it is, and she lowers onto it. She presses both of her hands into his hips to keep him from bucking as she fucks him, up and down, up and down, until he comes inside her. She gets off but does not voice her orgasm.

She slings her legs over his side and pulls her pants back up, leaves him crying on the bathroom floor as she shakes the fuck off and exits. She realizes that the sobriety chip is still in her mouth and spits it out.

* * *

From outside, the bar is unimpressive. It is pitiful. She stands with her feet wide apart and a hand on her hip, the other hand shielding her eyes from the harsh Australian sun. Inside she knows he is still crying, tears pinched in his eyes. He was a broken man before she met him which makes it no fun, but it's another conquest for her. A small one, not the ultimate one, but a conquest nonetheless. She digs her foot into the sand of the desert and imagines his heart beneath her, shriveled and black and stinking of formaldehyde.

Her ride pulls up. She hears it, hears the engine stall while the driver, her associate, waits for her. He is on time. She does not turn around but stares at the bar. _Joey's_, written on the blacked-out window. _Joey's_, in weathered letters along the flat roof. She curls her lip at it. It is pathetic, really, and not worth her time. Her tongue tastes like the inside of his pockets, of sweat and regret.

She digs her boots in harder, lets sand splatter along the top, squeezes her hip with her hand. Reminds herself that she is alive and that the ultimate cause is not dead even if this _was_ a dead-end. She imagines Seth rolled onto his stomach on the bathroom floor, tiny dick trapped between his stomach and the filthy floor, letting his tears roll down his face and collect underneath him, and she smiles.

She turns around and she leaves.


	9. A Serious Case of Cilantro Poisoning

When I have writer's block I do one of two things: open up fic requests or use a prompt generator. This is the result of a prompt generator.

* * *

**A Serious Case of Cilantro Poisoning **_Toki and Skwisgaar have a lover's spat. Sort of. _Skwisgaar/Toki.

* * *

Looking back, Toki probably shouldn't have done that. He realizes this as he looks down at Skwisgaar, looking unsettled in sleep due to the unfavorable condition of his face and skin, in his hospital bed. Toki is standing and has been for the last hour and a half, his feet starting to hurt in the arches, but he can't make himself sit down. He feels guilt grabbing at his gut, fingers pinching his intestines. He really shouldn't have done that.

Behind him, the door opens. He can't make himself look around, only at Skwisgaar, at the bloating of his cheeks and the discoloration of his once fair skin. Somebody places a hand on his shoulder, smells of booze and speaks in a harsh accent. "You really shouldn't have done that, Toki."

Toki sighs, his sigh evolving into a groan the further it continues on. "I _knows_," he says, slapping himself on the forehead. With somebody else in the room he finds he can sit down and so he drops himself into the chair beside Skwisgaar's bed.

Pickles hands Toki a bottle of liquor. "Figured you might need it," Pickles says.

"Thank, Pickle," Toki says. He unscrews the caps off the bottle and brings it to his mouth, swallowing a good portion before taking it away. "I feels…guilty, I think."

"Well," Pickle says. He moves Skwisgaar's hand and sits on his bed, which pisses Toki off in a minute and subconscious manner. "You almost killed the guy."

"He was beings a real jerk!" Toki says. He pauses and takes another drink, wipes the back of his mouth. It's true, but he can't shake this guilt.

"What did he do, exactly?"

Toki furrowed his eyebrows, fixed his lips into a pout. "He broked my real cools model airplanes," Toki said. "Just gets out of bed and breaks it!"

"Whoa, wait. He was in your bed?" Pickles looks between Skwisgaar and Toki, then gives a little half-shrug. "Whatever. Doesn't give you the right to poison him, dude."

"I didn't poisons him!" Toki takes another drink. He's starting to feel tipsy; he hasn't had anything to eat since the airplane incident that morning, during which he had been eating strawberries in bed, sucking the juice out of the ends. "I only slips him a little cilantro."

"He's allergic to cilantro."

"I knows dat." More alcohol.

Pickles leans forward and takes the bottle from Toki's mouth, spilling liquid down his shirt. Toki wraps his hands around the bottle and when Pickles tugs it away he tugs Toki towards him, Pickles falling back over Skwisgaar's midsection and Toki on top of him. This doesn't wake Skwisgaar up but Toki feels the guilt wash over him, a wave of it, an actual wave, and stands up from the bed, shame ebbing at him.

"Just apologize when he wakes up, geeze," Pickles mutters. He exits the room and brings the bottle of booze with him. Toki's sad to see them go, though more for the booze than for Pickles.

Defeated, he falls into the chair beside Skwisgaar's bed and falls asleep himself, feeling thoroughly miserable at the state of affairs. He awakes sometime later to the sound of somebody rustling around in the room, getting dressed or packing up, if the sound of a zipper is any inclination. He opens his eyes, stuck together with sleep, to see a shirtless, deflated and uncolored Skwisgaar standing before him, holding his shirt in his hands and his hands at his hips.

"You tries to poisons me!" Skwisgaar says as soon as Toki's eyes focus, pointing an accusing finger at him. "Dat ams de last time we sleeps in yous room. Whats next, you tries to suffocakes me with a pillow?"

Toki rubs at his eyes. "I's sorry!" He says, then he frowns. "Waits, no I's not! It takes me three days to build dat plane-"

"I steps on it by acksidents, maybe you shouldn't be leavingks your plains on de floor!"

Toki leaps to his feet and mirrors Skwisgaar's stance, balling fists against his hipbones. "We knocks it off last night when you pushes me into my desk! It ams you's fault!"

"It ams you's fault for beingks such a babies! Now I's all poisoned in de hospitals." Skwisgaar puts his shirt on as a sort of punctuation, a closing argument to his contention. This only serves to make Toki even more pissed off. Skwisgaar's being a dick and Toki can't even look at him shirtless.

"If you ams poisoned you ams dead," Toki says, drawing the words out as slow as he can. He knows Skwisgaar isn't stupid but he's acting like he is and so Toki adjusts his argument. "And you ams not dead! I couldn't kills you because it would makes me sad, you dick! I _hates _you!"

Skwisgaar pauses in pulling his shirt down, arches his eyebrow. "Babies," he says, but he says it softer, more fondly.

"Jerk," Toki says, much in the same manner.

Skwisgaar closes whatever space is left between Toki and kisses him.

Outside, Pickles pulls back from the door and faces Nathan and Murderface. "You guys owe me ten bucks," he says, before flouncing away, bottle of booze in hand.


	10. Lost and Found and Lost Again

This one's kind of sad. Also, I totally stole from Hannibal. See if you can see what.

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**Lost and Found and Lost Again **_Tumblr request: Skwisgaar finding Toki in the revegencers hideout. (:. _Skwisgaar/Toki.

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At Charles's request Skwisgaar is sitting in his office, boots on the corner of his desk and guitar in his lap. He's doing his best to arrange his face into an expression of apathy, fingers idle in the formation of a chord, muscles still. Charles sits in the chair behind the desk, his hands folded in front of him, fingers crossed over each other. He's pale and his suit looks like something you'd attend a funeral in.

"Skwisgaar," Charles begin. He clears his throat, flexes his hands, fixes his glasses, straightens his tie. Charles looks a mess, hair out of place and shirt buttoned wrong. "We've, ah." Rearranges the pencils in their cup, tugs at his collar, neatens his hair. "Located." Clears his throat again. "Toki."

Skwisgaar's first response is to let his eyebrows skyrocket, jump out of the chair, throw his guitar across the room and demand to know why the _fuck _he isn't back, _then_. Instead he does nothing but look at Charles, begs him to continue with his eyes. His fingers still on the strings.

"And we think that you are, uh. The best man. For the job. Of getting him." Charles sounds like a broken robot, his face twitching. He gets up from his desk and walks across the room, doesn't wait for Skwisgaar to respond before he starts talking again, his hands clasped behind his back. "Go, Skwisgaar. Go _now_. The helicopter's in place. Get him back. Go. Go!" His voice rises in pitch, spilling the most emotion Skwisgaar has ever heard from the man. Skwisgaar's looking in the corner of Charles's office and not seeing anything.

Skwisgaar takes his heavy boots off the corner of the desk. They make this huge, hollow sound against the wood of the floor that echoes as he walks. He leaves the guitar behind. He follows the twists and turns of Mordhaus until he is standing on a helicopter pad and being fitted, high-tech armor placed over his clothes. They tie his hair back in a knot at the end of his head and slip a microphone up through the front of his vest, a small and transparent camera sticking to his forehead. He wonders, absently, when they developed this technology. His fingers feel numb.

They shuffle him into the helicopters and shout muffled jargon back and forth to each other about clearing landing zones and take off times. Skwisgaar falls into a seat towards the back of the helicopter, stares ahead, again without seeing anything. He's catatonic, lost in his thoughts. He's trying to remember the last time he talked, really _talked _to Toki. He thinks that it was when they were alone in the living room of Mordhaus, one of Toki's legs drawn up on the couch and his foot pressed into his thigh, facing each other. Skwisgaar practiced a solo while Toki told him about this reoccurring nightmare he'd been having about his father. A band member, Toki had said, would turn into his father while they were at a show, or eating dinner, or just palling around, and he would talk to Toki in Norwegian except Toki wouldn't understand the words and then he'd produce a whip and beat Toki almost to death. He'd wake up on his final breath, Toki had said.

Then, Toki had cast his eyes down, red rising in his cheeks. "I doesn't knows why I tells you dis," he had mumbled to the couch cushions. "You doesn't cares."

Immediately: "Doesn't says dat." Toki flicked his eyes up to Skwisgaar, this girlish look of disbelief and amazement on his face. Skwisgaar rolled his eyes, bit his tongue. "I means, whatever." But it was enough, the talking it through, Skwisgaar's passive taking, his comment. It was enough for Toki to feel better. That had been a few weeks before he'd been taken. It played in Skwisgaar's mind, over and over again, Toki's eyes, the red in his cheeks, his _face_. Skwisgaar had laid in bed every night remembering Toki's face and his voice, willing himself not to forget it.

The helicopters lands. They place this huge gun in Skwisgaar's hands, tell him how to fire it. He practices, shooting a target, and finds that the guns makes no sound and the target melts when the bullet hits it. Again he wonders where they had the time and the money to come up with this stuff. It's all he can think about, these tangible things, as he continues to see nothing and loses the feeling in his fingers. He is flanked from all around by a group of soldier Klokateers as they move out of the helicopter and into the compound, all armed with the same weapon, and Skwisgaar finds that his mission isn't so much as to kill as the Klokateers' is to protect him. The Klokateers are good at their job, their weaponry advanced, and they lose only three men with one more injured on the way. The melted bodies, this sickly orange color from the combination of blood and skin, flood the floor. Skwisgaar is responsible for no deaths and his calves are aching from the running, the strain of his suit, by the time they reach what he guesses is Toki's room. It's at the end of a long and strongly lit hallway, a double door with bars on the windows. The Klokateers open the door with a key stolen from a Revengencer, peel away and let Skwisgaar enter, alone.

"Skwisgaar!" There is a flash of a person and then there are arms around Skwisgaar's neck and Skwisgaar can't help it, he wraps his arms around Toki. He feels smaller, his muscle mass wilted away, but Skwisgaar supposes that he was sort of expecting that. They cling to each other for a few minutes and Skwisgaar swallows back lumps and tears before Toki pulls away and Skwisgaar gets a look at him. They've shaved him and cut his hair short, fraying boyishly at the ends. He's wearing a yellow t-shirt and frayed denim cut-offs, barefoot. He's tan, a sunburn on the ridges of his cheeks, light freckling on his collarbone and forearms like they've had him in the garden. He looks so young, the youngest Skwisgaar has ever seen him, even when he was nineteen and new in Dethklok. No, Toki looks that sort of eternal young that the ghosts of the dead get, and it's creeping Skwisgaar out and he can't make himself speak. Toki talks, instead. "They's has me outside, planting de dead bodies in de garden," Toki says, his head bobbing with the words. There's a chirp in his voice; he sounds far, far too gleeful, and Skwisgaar is far, far too afraid.

"Tokis," Skwisgaar says, when he finds his voice. He puts his hands on Toki's shoulders, his fingers making spider webs to cover Toki's knobby bones. "What they does to you?"

Toki's mouth twitches and starts to form words before falling. His eyes fill up with tears and then his head is against Skwisgaar's chest, his back hunched, rubbing his tears into Skwisgaar's bulletproof vest. "Skwisgaar, Skwisgaar, Skwisgaar," he says, sniffling, probably smearing snot all over. "You's all I thinks about, you's all I wants. They's treats me goods, I swears. I asks for yous and they brings me you! Ams we going homes now?"

"Tokis," Skwisgaar says again. His hands are on Toki's back, moving up and down. He has a sudden and fierce desire to see Toki's scars, to check for some validation that this is still his Toki, not some imposter. They will tell him, later, after the doctors look Toki over, after the psychiatrists conduct extensive sessions with him, that while he is unharmed physically, his psychological state has been all but shattered, and that the bodies he planted in the garden were men that he killed on behalf of the Revengencers, men that he enjoyed killing, and that he grew vegetables from their decomposing bodies underneath a layer of soil, turnips and carrots and squash. He doesn't know that in the moment, though, in the moment all he can do is rub Toki's back up and down, say his name, over and over, they're saying each other's names into each other.

Skwisgaar nudges Toki off of him to look at his face. He looks uneven and uneasy like this, without a curtain of hair and the mustache to frame his mouth. His mouth especially, the lips thin and cold, chapped. Skwisgaar lowers his to Toki's, wants to force-feed him his life back, wants to remind himself that Toki is still real. Toki blinks tears through his eyelashes into Skwisgaar's cheek, takes the kiss passively.

The perfect man for the job, the pinnacle of apathy, Skwisgaar shouldn't be affected. But Charles was wrong and Skwisgaar has the feeling in his hands back, can see the dirt beneath Toki's fingernails. Toki is staining Skwisgaar, his lips and his tears and his touch, he's creeping into him and making Skwisgaar care. He wants to turn back time, wants to take Toki into his arms on that couch and hold him and tell him that he won't let the band members turn into visions of his father anymore, that he won't let Magnus take him, d if he promises not to go to the funeral and to never speak to Magnus again. Skwisgaar pulls back from Toki's face, runs his thumb over Toki's lip, the action simple enough to peel flesh from Toki's wrecked lips. Small flecks of his blood stick to Skwisgaar's thumb and Toki doesn't seem to notice.

The Klokateers reform the circle around them as they walk out of the room. Skwisgaar holds Toki's hand like a mother holding a small child, leading them through a busy mall, keeping them safe of predators. Except the predators are all dead, the only predators left in the child's head, and Skwisgaar can't do a damn thing about it.


	11. Ice Cream and Amusement Parks

Dedicated to tumblr user brendonnudity who requested this. I tried. I really did.

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**Ice Cream and Amusement Parks **_I challenge you to write Magnus/Toki pre-betrayal stabbing. _Magnus/Toki.

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He gave him attention, and that's what he liked most of all. The band didn't give a fuck about him. They didn't even _try _to pretend that they cared about him. Even saving him from camp was an act of selfishness, more about revenge for themselves than about concern over Toki, and Toki didn't have to take that sort of shit. Toki could be his own man, could have his own friends, and Magnus was there for him. He looked out for Toki at camp because he cared about him, not because of some old feud, and he hung around afterwards, calling Toki nightly. Toki grew attached fast. He always did.

Magnus took him to places that Toki wanted to go to, ice cream parlors and amusement parks, loomed in the background while Toki rode rollercoasters or ordered sundaes. Toki would drag Magnus in with him, getting him to ride beside him on carousels and chatter while he licked the inside of a waffle cone. He coaxed smiles from Magnus, drew stories from him, got him to talk to him. Magnus opened up, though it took a while, and Toki felt happy, he did. It was a natural progression to layer a hand over his while they sat at a table in a restaurant, comparing days. Magnus returned the touch and fixed his face into something like anger, before softening and running a thumb over Toki's hand. Unspoken. They kissed goodnight.

Metal musicians were so brooding, so quiet, and Toki was used to this treatment. He went along anyway, bouncing and happy and smiles, unaware of what was come, blaming Magnus's behavior on prior knowledge in relation to Dethklok. Kisses and touches lingered and soon Toki was professing his undying love, getting nothing in return, and he didn't care at all.


	12. Toki Watch

I am incapable of writing happy post-season 4 fic.

**Toki Watch **_Tumblr request: Nathan/Toki post-s4 (doesn't have to be romantic, can just be general gay friendshippy stuff). Genfic._

After Toki returns it is decided and agreed upon that he should not be left alone. They take shifts, Skwisgaar staying in the night, Charles in the mornings, Pickles in the afternoons, Murderface during the evenings, and Nathan filling the gaps left by his bandmates' flighty attendance records. Nathan sits on the edge of Toki's bed while he sleeps through whole days, hair braided into a knot at the base of his skull so that he won't pull strands of it out as he has been prone to doing. Nathan escorts Toki to the bathroom, averts his eyes when Toki sinks into the tub, new scars running the length of his body, no longer confined to his back. Nathan lunges at Toki and holds his arms behind his back when Toki will begin to kick and scream, not living in the present moment but in the past, Nathan never knowing if Toki is seeing Magnus or his father before him.

It is all Toki wants to be alone, Toki has told Nathan, but other people tell Nathan things too, words such as _suicide watch _and _psychotic break _flowing from the lips of Charles and doctors. Nathan understands these phrases but chooses to ignore their meaning, act dumb. Strong paternal flames burn in his belly, reaching up to brush his heart. Toki is _theirs_. Toki is _his. _Toki has been hurt, and now they have to deal with the ramifications.

Nathan scrubs the blood and brains of a Klokateer that Toki had attacked with his spiked baseball bat in the night while Skwisgaar had left to use the bathroom, Skwisgaar waking Nathan from his sleep after returning to find Toki gory and cowering in the corner. Nathan and Skwisgaar greet Charles with sheepish and tentative smiles when he comes to take his shift, Nathan holding the blood-soaked rag behind his back while Skwisgaar looks up from trying to coax Toki from the corner. They expect a lecture on forgetfulness and are surprised to see Charles go around Nathan and take the rag from him, getting on his own hands and knees to scrub at the remnants of the Klokateer. "Go," he tells them. "It's my turn now."

They're supposed to be recording the record that will somehow stop the apocalypse, kill Salacia and fix everything, but instead they sit around, morose, always missing two members. Toki doesn't leave his wing of Mordhaus, spends his days muttering nonsense to himself or to the string of therapists that pass through his door. Sometimes when Murderface is on Toki watch the three contributing members of the band try to write something but they know it's not right, it never was right, they need everybody in full now more than ever. Nathan thinks that they'll never have Dethklok returned in full, that although Toki's physical body is there with them his mind is just as gone as ever, but he doesn't tell the band this. The rest of them look so goddamned _sad _all the time, and besides, musing about the soul of your friend is totally gay and not metal.

It's when three more Klokateers perish at Toki's hands, that spiked baseball bat swinging into the gut of a girl Klokateer while Pickles is passed out drunk on the floor, Toki's bare hands wrapping around the neck of a burly bodyguard while Murderface leaves to get snacks, Toki stabbing another one to death with one of the knives he used to make models in the empty space between Charles's and Pickles's shifts, that Nathan's entire job becomes looking after Toki. He's the strongest member of the band, the one that can hold onto Toki for the amount of time needed to jam a needle in his neck and sedate him, the loudest voice to call for help. He sleeps on the floor beside Toki's bed, curled up in the blanket from his own room, staring at the mass of Toki and feeling vaguely afraid for his life. He is there when Toki wakes up and rolls over in bed, his eyes unfocused and mouth slack. He watches as Klokateers sometimes feed Toki his meals, other times as Toki lifts the food to his mouth and chews long and deliberate, wincing.

It's exhausting. Nathan hasn't been so tired in years. The others join him, resuming their previous schedule, keeping him company, Skwisgaar on the floor beside him, Charles telling him in a quiet voice about the intricacies of the prophecy, Pickles playing cards on Toki's desk with him, Murderface irritating him with the insistence that heshould be the one to watch after Toki. Through the days Toki is either asleep or catatonic, dressed in pajama bottoms, nails cut short so he won't scratch himself. He's been getting worse, not better, and there has been talk of moving him to some sort of facility. Nathan leaves the room when the doctors and therapists come, uses those periods as an escape.

If Toki recovers one day—if he leaves his bed for a reason other than to make a trip to the bathroom or murder somebody in the middle of the night—Nathan hopes that Toki looks back on these empty months and feels some gratitude. But, as Nathan's back hits the stone wall outside Toki's room as a new line-up of specialists from Finland trickle into Toki's room, he wouldn't care either way. He would take a punch in the face if it meant Toki came back in full.


	13. Psych Ward Tango

**Psych Ward Tango **_Tumblr request: i dare u to write a fic where toki utters the line "he ran intos my knife. he ran intos my knife ten times."_. Character death. Genfic.

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"Toki! The fuck, dude?" Pickles drops the bottle of beer he'd been holding, translucent green glass shattering and thick black liquid oozing across the floor.

Toki turns around, veins in his face and red in his eyes bulging, blood splatters coating his clothes. "He rans intos my knifes," Toki said, his voice a little shrill. "He rans intos my knifes ten times."

Pickles looks down at what may be the corpse of his lead guitarist. He wants to kick him to see if he's alive but he's barefoot and doesn't want to walk through glass. "Toki…is Skwisgaar still…alive?"

"What de fucks does you thinks, Pickles?" Toki asks. He rolls his eyes, his grip on the knife tightening.

Pickles gulps. He's seen Toki like this before, bloody and crazed, and he doesn't much feel like being his next victim. "I'm just…I'm gonna go now. Get another beer. Yeah. Bye, Toki."

Pickles scurries off in the direction of Charles's office. Charles folds his hands and sighs upon hearing the news, orders a clean-up crew both literally and figuratively, checks Toki into a hospital. Dethklok is done and also, upon visiting Toki, disturbed to find that Toki has made friends and musical numbers in the psych ward.


	14. catalyst

**catalyst **_Gay preklok glam gross glitter sex_. Nathan/Pickles.

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His ears are full of holes with small, silver earrings sticking through them. He counts three flowers, a heart, two stars, a knife, a gun, and though there is the same amount of the same things on the other side, it is not symmetrical. He's wearing neon green fingerless mesh gloves, his fingernails a chipped lilac, lipstick smeared around the microphone that he sings into like sucking a cock. His entire body is coated in a thin sheen of glitter, globs accumulating as he sweats. His hair is so red and so everywhere, frayed edges tickling Nathan's face as he leans into the crowd, puts a hand on Nathan's shoulder.

Nathan can't believe he let Murderface talk him into this. "Come see my old friend," Murderface had said in that annoying lisp. "Come see him in this stupid gay band." Those exact words and Nathan had conceded, only because he had nothing better to do that night. They're in a new city, a fringe to something big and great, just hanging out and wasting time. Building up to something, Nathan thinks. That's what his dreams tell him. But he doesn't know what they're building up to yet, all he knows is that he works at a fast food joint, rooms with Murderface and is standing in the front row of a Snakes 'n' Barrels concert, close enough to the lead singer that he can swell the booze on his breath as he sings this dirty little song in Nathan's face. Murderface is shrieking some emotion Nathan doesn't have the intelligence to identify. Nathan doesn't know how Murderface knows Pickles, doesn't care enough.

He does something ballsy. He grabs a handful of Pickles's hair and tugs, hard enough that Pickles stammers over the lyric he'd been singing. Nathan smiles this shit-eating smile and in that moment he's hooked, he's so fucking hooked. They'll talk and laugh about this for years to come; Pickles well tell Nathan that the most romantic thing he's ever said was when he confessed that this moment is when he falls in love. Nathan doesn't know he's in love right now, though. All he knows is that he works at a fast food joint, rooms with Murderface and is standing in the front row of a Snakes 'n' Barrels concert, close enough that the lead singer's hand is wrapping around his shoulder, that he's taking the microphone away and leaning down to Nathan's ear, that he's whispering in it, that's he telling him, "See me after the show."

Maybe it's the androgyny. This is the first time Nathan's ever fucked a dude and it doesn't feel wrong or anything, his huge hands gripping Pickles's small and tight ass as Pickles wraps his legs around his waist, naked. Glitter covers him like it's his actual skin, shiny serpent scales, and he's still wearing these horrendous pink cowboy boots and he's still whispering these horrendous sultry things in Nathan's ears. They're in Pickles's dressing room; Nathan can see himself in the mirror, his back against the opposite wall as he thrusts up. There's wings of freckles on Pickles's back.

Afterwards he's walking funny, hips sore. He meets up with Murderface outside the venue; Murderface is pissing freely on the ground, teetering with drunkenness. When Murderface asks where Nathan was, Nathan tells him he was getting laid. Murderface will never find out the truth, will forget about the night down the road, that he was the catalyst for all of this.


	15. sense safety and sound

**sense safety and sound**_ Cuddling makes the pain go away._ Skwisgaar/Toki, post season 4.

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Skwisgaar hasn't seen that much of Toki since he was returned. It isn't out of Skwisgaar's own volition—Toki is shuffled between doctors and psychiatrists, trying to repair his broken body and psyche, and he spends more time than not in the hospital, visitors not allowed. Skwisgaar passes the days doing the thing he knew best: practicing guitar. He hasn't been interested in sex for months, not since Toki had been taken away, hasn't even so much as gotten an erection. The return to a sort of normalcy, past the deaths of so many including those who opposed them and poor Abigail, is unsettling. Skwisgaar spends far too much time by himself.

But, when Toki is free of doctors and psychiatrists and not drugged out of his mind or living in the past, he and Skwisgaar stick together. Toki practices guitar, now, as some sort of comfort, and Skwisgaar never would've thought that he'd see the day where this made him sad, but it does. They're always touching, whether it be a thigh pressed into a thigh or a hand layered over a hand, and the band doesn't say anything because fuck the band, this is serious. They don't talk, not a lot. They spend their time together in understanding silence, infiltrated only by the sound of their harmonies, softer, sweeter and sadder than before.

Even rarer are the nights that Toki doesn't spend in a hospital bed. Those are Skwisgaar's favorite nights, though, because Toki can't sleep alone and Skwisgaar's the first one to volunteer to let Toki sleep in his room. Toki slips under the blanket, into Skwisgaar's arm. It's not sexual; Skwisgaar doesn't know if it ever will be, if either he or Toki will ever be capable of sexual feeling again. But it's pleasant, it's comforting, it's warm, it's everything they need, skin to skin, hair tangling in hair, body to body. Nose to nose, sometimes, stomach to back others, always entangled, always close. Always together.


	16. let me hold both your hands

Sweater weather makes me want to write gay teenage boys in love. Uh, go listen to Sweater Weather by The Neighbourhood while you listen to this or else, like, it won't be as neat.

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**let me hold both your hands in the holes of my sweater**_ head's in the clouds but my gravity's centered._ Skwisgaar/Toki, high school AU, unrelated to Attending Fuckface Academy or Blowjobs and Milkshakes.

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It starts with a sweater. Toki shows up to school in shorts and short sleeves on the coldest day of the fucking year, his nose red and face construed in a grimace, and Skwisgaar can't help but take Toki away when he walks up to the group they hang out with by the lockers before school. He stows him away in the handicapped stall of the bathroom and asks him why he isn't dressed warmly; Toki shivers and says that it's no big deal, the lack of answer giving Skwisgaar one anyway. He takes Toki's hands and sticks them into his own sweater, a very chic patterned thing, and Toki smiles up with these stupid eyes at Skwisgaar and Skwisgaar can't help but kiss him. The smell of a boys' bathroom, yellowish lighting and cold radiating form soiled tile doesn't make for much of a romantic first kiss but Skwisgaar does it anyway, bending his neck as Toki stands on his tippy toes, bridging the height gap between them. Hands get lost in hair. Skwisgaar shrugs the leather jacket he's wearing off and wraps it around Toki's shoulder—Skwisgaar wears his clothes baggy and it fits Toki perfectly—and Toki smiles up at him, looking stupid and kissable with thick lips, and Skwisgaar steals another before slipping away ten minutes after the bell rings. He tells Toki not to tell anyone, talking in Swedish just in case, his boots making loud sounds in the empty bathroom as he sashays away.

But of course Skwisgaar forgets that Toki's wearing his jacket and by the time he's switched to second period he has girls on him, asking him about this. Even Lavona, often more interested in Nathan and thus an object of Skwisgaar's affection, hangs form his arms, asks him what's up with that freshie in his leather jacket. Skwisgaar swats her away, uninterested in her and her tight cleavage-revealing metal girl gear. "Fucks off," he says, and it does nothing but make her swoon for him, that accent, that long blond hair, that patterned sweater and ripped white jeans. Skwisgaar's too sexy for his own good, that's the problem, and the boy he wants is on his mind through French and English and Math. He thinks about the way Toki tastes, like toothpaste and sugar, wishes he could text him and take him out of his class to make out some more. But Toki's a good kid and gets good grades and loves school and also doesn't have a phone so Skwisgaar is stuck sucking on the end of a pencil, scowling as the rumors about him fucking the new kid grows. (He tells them that he would never stoop so low; in reality, he doesn't want to stoop so low _for _Toki, doesn't want to spoil this, not yet.)

By the time they regroup for break, convening with the rest of the guys around a picnic table in the courtyard with Pickles sitting on top and Nathan's arm brazen around Pickles's shoulders, Murderface in some heated discussion with Knubbler, Toki standing with his hands shoved in the pockets of his shorts and Skwisgaar's jacket around his arms staring at his shoes, Skwisgaar running his hand through his hair and sighing a lot, the whole school's shooting him looks. He wants to flip them off and say fuck them all because Toki's too good for this, he's an innocent little freshman with this mysterious trouble past and he's driving Skwisgaar absolutely mad. Skwisgaar wraps a hand around Toki's shoulder bone, steals him away for the second time today, this time into the corner of an untraveled hallway.

"Dey's talkin' bout us," Toki whispers, eyes on Skwisgaar's lips and hands folded behind his back. Skwisgaar has a foot propped up on its toe, a hand by Toki's head, their faces but inches apart.

"Ja," Skwisgaar says, annoyed. "Dey sucks. You's great."

"I know." Toki grins. Skwisgaar laughs; they all think Toki's this pure little Christian boy but Skwisgaar knows, knows the streak and the rage that lies underneath, beneath that skin. Skwisgaar wraps his free hand around Toki's wrist, feels his pulse. He wants to say something romantic but can't even think of anything in Swedish so he takes Toki's hand and holds it against Toki's chest as he leans in and kisses him in these slow, languid laps, he's been thinking about this all _day_.

And then after school, Skwisgaar driving Toki home in his shitty beat-up car that he worked two summers for and could barely drive anyway and everybody thinks they're dating so Skwisgaar guesses they're dating. "Keeps de jackets," he says, idling outside of Toki's house with his engine growling. Toki's face lights up and it makes it worth it, it makes the whole thing worth it.

That weekend they go down to the beach and they stand with their bare feet in the freezing water and Toki's wearing that leather jacket and his hair is whipping around his face and he needs to shave but Skwisgaar doesn't have the heart to tell him that because he's so in love with the fine hairs on Toki's face from his eyelashes to the pubescent boy stubble. They're holding hands and it's overcast as fuck, everything tinged gray and blue, fog surrounding them so that they're in their own nautical cocoon. Skwisgaar can't see the edges of the world on either side as they blur into white fuzz, can't see twenty feet in only direction, can only see white sand and blue-green water and Toki's skin. Condensation builds up from the fog, coating their faces and getting in their eyes and their hair and sand is on Toki's lips from the wind and they connect their mouths in this sloppy kiss, their toes edging towards each other in this freezing water, the tide moving in and out makes them feel like they're moving when they're standing still. And Skwisgaar thinks, fuck it, fuck them, fuck it all, this is all he needs, this lovely boy and this shitty weather, fuck his mother and fuck his other friends, fuck them all. He runs a hand down Toki's face, drabbing a drop of moisture with his thumb, then across Toki's lips. "You's mine," Skwisgaar whispers, over and over again until his words fade into nothing but touches of lips on Toki's skin that keeps him shivering.


End file.
